I'm On Fire
by MTT-VB
Summary: Bruce Springsteen.  Jim.  Pam.  Late season 2 angst filled one-shot.


_This is a little something I wrote with my beta buddy over at MTT. I wrote from Jim's perspective; **Jazzfan** wrote from Pam's. We don't own any of The Office. Don't own Bruce Springsteen's songs. We were just inspired to see how this song would fit Jim and Pam around the send of season 2._

_Hope you enjoy..._

* * *

><p><em><strong>I'm On Fire<br>**__(Bruce Springsteen)_

_Hey little girl is your daddy home?  
><em>_Did he go away and leave you all alone?  
><em>_Oh, I got a bad desire._  
><em>Oh, I'm on fire.<em>

_Tell me now baby, is he good to you?_  
><em>Can he do to you the things that I do?<em>  
><em>Oh, I can take you higher.<em>  
><em>Oh, I'm on fire.<em>

_Sometimes it's like someone took a knife, baby,_  
><em>Edgy and dull and cut a six-inch valley<em>  
><em>Through the middle of my soul.<em>  
><em>At night I wake up with the sheets soaking wet<em>  
><em>And a freight train running through the<em>  
><em>Middle of my head.<em>  
><em>Only you can cool my desire.<em>  
><em>Oh, I'm on fire.<br>Oh, I'm on fire._  
><em>Oh, I'm on fire.<em>

* * *

><p>Jim Halpert was doing a lot of laundry these days. He never got a solid night's sleep anymore – pretty much every night at about two a.m. his heart began racing, his cock stiffened, and his fingers took up wandering. One way or another, three a.m. found him drenched in sweat. Some nights he ended up with a hot, sticky puddle beneath his navel and damp sheets that clung to his clammy skin. But he no longer felt any release as his body shuddered and he grunted her name; lately it left him feeling debauched and empty. So, instead, most nights he used the hem of his T-shirt to mop the sweat that dripped from his brow as he ran mile upon mile through the sweltering, muggy air of the summer's first heat wave.<p>

He was totally spent from maintaining the pretense that he was happy to be her friend. All day long he pretended that what she gave him was enough. That what he gave _her_ was enough. But every night he woke up _wanting_.

It maddened him the way Pam alternated between flirty, teasing laughter and innocent, sisterly affection. She could turn it on and off like a tap. Like this morning when they were about to start a _Sudoko Sprint_ challenge – they were talking smack, good-naturedly ribbing each other when she cocked her eyebrow and archly asked, "Do you _really_ think you can nail me?" Her tone of voice left him at a loss. He couldn't be sure she knew what she was implying. But how could she _not_? In any case, her jibe rendered him mute as he imagined _nailing her_ right up against the wall.

Then she'd abruptly asked him if he wanted to have lunch with her and Roy. Seriously. Lunch. With Pam _and Roy._ He couldn't imagine anything less appealing. She knew he'd brought his lunch, so he couldn't use that as an excuse. He declared a sudden, burning desire to go for a noon run. So there he'd been, running. In the daytime. In ninety degrees and sixty percent humidity. As if the nightly runs weren't enough. He spent the twenty-five minutes trying to decide if Pam could be so totally ignorant of his feelings, or if she was just that cruel. He really hoped it was the former.

By the time he'd limped back into the office, soaked and spent, he peeled the damp clothes from his body and tossed them haphazardly into his gym bag. He dispiritedly rinsed himself off, put his work clothes back on and forced himself back to his desk. All afternoon he'd pretended to do paperwork. He was in no mood to talk to customers and certainly not to _any _of his co-workers.

He was among the first to leave the office. At four fifty he decided to hit the head one last time and get the hell out. His gym bag caught in the doorway of the men's room and he savagely yanked it behind him. He rushed through the office, relieved that Pam was momentarily captive in Michael's office.

Evening dragged on into night with no respite from his turmoil. He knew Pam was alone – _again_. Roy had left her to spend yet _another_ weekend horsing around at the lake with that buffoon of a brother. He really couldn't understand what was wrong with that guy. How could a case of beer and a pair of jet skis possibly be more appealing than being with _her_ for forty eight hours? It took every measure of Jim's restraint not to drive over there and knock on her door – he'd know how to take care of her, all right.

So, she'd be alone all weekend; he'd be wanting her all weekend; and the jackass would be ignoring her all weekend. It made him hurt just to think about it. Really, though, pain was all he felt anymore: Sometimes, a dull ache; other times, a raw burn that scorched his insides from his throat right down to his gut. It was always there, the focal point of Jim's attention, blunting his other sensations. Foods all tasted the same. Beautiful sunsets escaped his notice. His iPod sat uncharged for weeks. He had, however, discovered that Maker's Mark and Cuervo 1800 felt nicely warm going down … plus, as an added bonus, they got him satisfactorily drunk without the bloat of a six pack.

He tried to exorcise his restless frustration with these marathon runs or all nighters shooting hoops at the local park. He'd amassed an atlas-like knowledge of every side street within five miles of his house. And he could swish a jump shot from damn near any spot on the court by now – there had to be some phallic symbolism in that.

But, as much as he tried, nothing slaked his imagination. He visualized every scenario of having her. Soft and pliant beneath him: yielding in his arms, sighing that he made her feel things she'd never felt before. Legs spread wide before him: quivering uncontrollably as his tongue and fingers stroked her, attentive and relentless. Riding him: hair tossed behind her, leaning back as she rolled her hips, seductive and wanton, exposing her body to his lewd enjoyment. Bent over a chair: moaning as he pounded her from the rear, reaching around the front of her, his fingers furiously pleasuring her. In Jim's dreams, he always made her come.

In his darker fantasies, Pam liked it rough. It scared him because he liked it, too. It stoked his rage and thrilled him; he'd never felt this kind of naked aggression. But then again, he'd never been this hurt and angry and ashamed and in love. The truth of it was, Pam made _him_ feel a lot of things he'd never felt before.

He didn't know how much longer he could control his emotions. He had to find a way out before he said something that he'd regret forever.

Jim's feet pounded the pavement as he ran his fingers through his drenched hair to slick it back from his forehead. He glanced at his watch. Three thirty. And he wondered bitterly – did _she_ sleep?

* * *

><p>Everyone but Dwight was already gone when Pam finally reached under the counter for her purse and tote bag. She was in no hurry to get home from the office tonight – she had plenty of time on her hands. Kenny had already picked up Roy and they were well on their way to a guy's weekend at the lake, leaving her all by herself until Sunday evening.<p>

Today at lunch, Roy had brought her some Chinese takeout up to the break room. Trying to ease his guilt, she thought cynically. She probably should be aggravated he was leaving her for the weekend, but honestly, all she felt was a strange sense of relief. She'd accepted his gesture gracefully without mentioning that a couple of days alone - to do whatever _she_ wanted – sounded pretty appealing right now.

Blistering hot temperatures were predicted for the entire weekend. Maybe she'd go to the mall, or catch a matinee of some movie that Roy would never watch with her. Yes, she was alone, but on the other hand, her time was her own for a change.

She made a decisive stab at the button to set the phone to voice mail and made her way to the kitchen to get her uneaten salad from the fridge. Maybe that would be her supper. If she didn't want to cook tonight, she didn't have to. She opened the refrigerator and retrieved the Tupperware, dropping it into her tote bag. As she turned to leave the kitchen, she spied a grey T shirt lying crumpled on the floor, right outside the men's bathroom. She picked it up and held it by the shoulders, only to find that it was that old Scranton T shirt that Jim had owned for ages. It must have fallen out of his gym bag after lunch.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Dwight approaching the kitchen. She didn't want him to see her with Jim's shirt, so she quickly stuffed it into her tote. She'd take it home, throw it in the wash, and bring it back clean on Monday. Jim probably did laundry as infrequently as possible, she supposed as Dwight pushed the door open. He purposefully strode past her into the men's room, acknowledging her with a dismissive nod.

Regrettably, she and Jim hadn't pulled any pranks on Dwight recently – he'd mostly been helping her with wedding plans. The truth was, Jim had seemed a little stressed out lately and she wasn't quite sure why. When she'd asked him about it, he'd denied there was any problem, but she was still suspicious.

Pam had invited Jim to eat lunch with her and Roy today– thinking maybe he'd enjoy the company– but he had opted to go running instead. Maybe she could cheer him Monday with some wild and dramatic tale of how she'd rescued his T shirt from a near certain death at the hands of Dwight K. Schrute? Okay, maybe not, but saving his shirt was a simple thing she could do for Jim, a small returned favor for all the little things he did for her. He really was the best friend she'd ever had. As she headed home, she thought maybe she should start making more of an effort to let him know how much she appreciated him.

Pam had to fight through some horrendous Friday afternoon traffic, but she did manage to pick up a bottle of wine and rent a season of _Six Feet Under_ on the way home. Roy thought the show was creepy, but she liked it. And he never got wine, always beer. So tonight she was going to spend the entire evening sipping wine on the couch, and hopefully having a few good laughs while she watched Claire succeed in art school.

When she opened the front door, however, she was disappointed to find that their place wasn't all that cool. She checked their two window air conditioning units and they seemed to be running fine, both putting out good streams of cool air. Maybe this heat wave was too much for them – they just couldn't keep the entire apartment cool. Well, there wasn't anything to be done about it at this hour, with Roy gone. Typical, really. When she actually needed Roy, he was never there. Pam kicked off her shoes, grabbed a wine glass and a fork for her salad, and set up shop in front of the TV for the evening.

Much later, she awoke on the couch with the menu music playing over and over. She wiped a dribble of drool from the corner of her mouth and squinted at the clock on the DVD player. Two a.m. She pulled herself up off the couch and headed to the bathroom to pee, ignoring the dirty dishes on the coffee table. She'd clean up this mess tomorrow. Who cared?

On the way out of the bathroom, Pam paused at the sink. She supposed she _should_ wash her face and get that makeup off before she went to bed. She hadn't bothered to change after work, so she unbuttoned her pink blouse and peeled off her skirt. Pam stuffed a washcloth into the sink under the tap while she removed her bra as well. After she washed her face, she ran the washcloth over her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, her belly. The dampness felt cool and wonderfully refreshing on her bare skin.

She stared at herself in the mirror. She ought to go to bed naked, she thought. It was the only way she was going to stay cool in that bedroom. But Pam Beesly didn't sleep naked, even when Roy wanted her to. She'd wear her pajamas despite the fact that they were hot. But then she saw it, lying innocently on top of the clothes hamper.

Jim's grey T shirt.

A half smile played on her lips as she reached down to touch the shirt, running the fabric between her fingers. It was soft. Worn. Familiar.

She paused for a moment, and then impulsively lifted the cloth and rubbed it against her cheek, taking a deep breath. The shirt didn't smell sweaty, but it definitely smelled like him. Like Jim. Of course she knew what he smelled like, there was nothing wrong with that. She'd spent hours at work with him, after all. This wasn't weird, she told herself as she crushed the fabric to her nose and inhaled deeply.

The smile spread over her whole face.

A T shirt would be the perfect thing to wear to bed on a hot night like this. Yes, it was loose and light. Perfect.

She slowly slipped the shirt over her head, savoring the sensation of the thin cotton gliding over her skin, and she smoothed it down with her hands until the hem fell right below her bottom. Again, she looked at herself in the mirror. The shirt hung loose, draped over her slender body. When Jim wore this, she recalled, his shoulders stretched the fabric tight over his taut, lanky frame. His body had been in this shirt, she realized, probably today. And now the same shirt fell softly over her bare breasts. Shocked at her own brazen thoughts, she smiled in spite of herself. This felt so sensuous. Maybe even a little dangerous. She involuntarily licked her lips.

A voice in the back of her head told her she shouldn't be doing this, but right now she didn't care. She was alone and Roy wouldn't know. He'd left her there alone for the weekend, and he sure as hell wasn't thinking about _her_ at the moment.

She walked into the bedroom and threw the bed covers back . She climbed into the bed, sprawling right in the middle, not even bothering to pull the sheet over her. Pam closed her eyes and laid back quietly in the moist, warm darkness, aware only of the sensation of the shirt on her skin. She wondered if Jim had ever slept in it. She bet he had.

She began to toss and turn, and the T shirt tugged at her shoulders; it stretched tight over her belly; it clung to her breasts in the sticky heat of the room. She was constantly aware of the fabric touching her, and it made her skin tingle. Jim's shirt. Everywhere Jim's shirt touched her, she burned.

She ventured a little further, allowing herself to imagine what it would feel like if his hands touched her skin. Would they be tender? Or rough and demanding? She knew she shouldn't be wondering these things – but yet she was. This wasn't the first time she'd thought of Jim's hands, she admitted, and what they could do. But if she never told anybody, well, she hadn't _done_ anything bad, had she? It's not like Roy never looked at other women. Besides, these were just her thoughts, she'd always told herself. Her own harmless, private thoughts.

She glanced at the clock. 3:30 am. She pictured how Jim might look as he slept. Was he sleeping soundly, his face peaceful and serene, alone in his bed tonight? Did he have on a T shirt or just boxers? Was he…aroused? Wow. She really shouldn't be thinking about that. Pam's face flushed and the warmth she felt had nothing to do with the temperature in the room. She began to run her hands over her body, feeling herself through the thin fabric. As she did, she promised herself she would wash this shirt in the morning, and put it away until she took it back to work on Monday. But right now, she was going to wear it. Pam touched herself. She kept touching herself until another warmth spread over her body. She arched her back and whispered a name into the silent room. Jim.

She knew she should feel guilty, but she didn't. Her body was gloriously on fire as she lay, sated, with Jim's shirt clinging to her skin. No one would know what she'd done tonight. It was her secret, never to be shared. She wondered if Jim ever thought of _her_ at night, like she'd just thought of him. Probably not. Still, she laid awake in the dark for a long, long time. Wondering.


End file.
